"Subsidi—" Tony cleared his throat. "You knew I was . . . working for him and you never told me."
"He told me to keep it quiet."
"For a price."
Boyle shrugged, then winced and held his ribs again. "I don't come cheap. Your Daddy is going to back me as a miniseries producer as soon as I've run out of ways to prop you up."
"Why?"
"Why is he backing me? Because I'm a superb producer."
"Why did he . . ."—Tony choked on the word—"subsidize my show?"
"I didn't ask him and he didn't tell me." Boyle's voice had become stronger as Tony's grew weaker. "Any other questions?"
Silently Tony shook his head.
"Tony," Elizabeth said. "That's enough. You've heard enough. We're going."
"He's ignoring you, Lizzie," said Boyle. "He has to make up to me. You should see that. You've lost him. You lost Olson, too. You should be clear on that, so listen carefully." He started to drink from the bottle, then poured Scotch into a glass instead, and drank from it. "This is for the future. You can do what you want when I approve it. That means you'll clear everything with me: every interview, every editing job, every tape that goes on the air. And you won't argue when I put my foot down. You're good, but it's my show and I didn't like the Olson interview so I killed it. Them's the rules. I wouldn't like to lose you, but I don't tolerate insolence; television is teamwork. You stay on our team; you'll be very happy. Don't think Mr. Rourke and I don't know that the ratings are up because of you; we're planning a nice raise and your own house and car for when you're in town. You're a valued part of 'Anthony.' Who knows? Someday 'Anthony' may even become 'Private Affairs.' "
Elizabeth's stomach was churning; she was so angry the room was blurred and red, as if her blood rushed hot and fuming just behind her eyes. "Not your 'Private Affairs,' Bo; not ever. You won't ever have a chance to kill anything of mine again." She took Tony's hand in both of hers. "Tony, I'm leaving. Please come with me."
He turned to her, his mouth rigid. "Why are you fighting him? Don't argue; just say you'll go along!"
"Go along?" She let his hand drop. Boyle was watching, a small smile on his face, but she spoke only to Tony. "Go along with what?"
"With whatever he says! Do you have to be so goddam . . . proud? It's not important enough! He killed one lousy interview! That's all we're talking about!"
"We're talking about my work!" she cried. "It comes from my mind; I create it; and you're damned right I'm proud! I'm proud of what I create; it's part of me and it's very important! Can't you see that? Can't you understand it and stand up for me?"
"Did you hear what he said about my father?"
"Of course I did; that's part of it. Do you think I want to work for Keegan any more than you do? But how can we talk about it—how can we talk about anything—if you can't understand what I'm saying and at least support me—"
"There's nothing I can do. What the hell do you want me to do? Risk my whole future because you don't like taking orders? Nobody likes taking orders! Are you so special I'm supposed to destroy myself so you don't have to take them? I'm the one who needs support, not you! One interview, Elizabeth! One tiny fucking interview!"
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. "I can't believe you're saying this. Where's all the brave talk I've heard for months? Tony, we can find other sponsors. If our ratings are up, that's not a secret. If we believe in what we can do—"
"No. You don't know what you're talking about. It's a jungle, this business, and I won't go out there looking for a job, getting chewed up . . ." He looked at her, his eyes pleading. "Do what Bo says. It's not so terrible, is it? And you're famous, Elizabeth! Nothing else is important if you have that! Christ, Elizabeth, don't make trouble! I don't know how the hell I got into this—I knew we shouldn't come tonight—then I wouldn't have found out—I'd never have known—I don't give a damn about sponsors! I do interviews; I don't worry about money! Sponsors are not my problem!"
"Tony, stop!" Elizabeth cried. "You keep making things worse!" She went to a chair near the doorway and picked up her jacket. "I know how terrible it's been for you, Tony, finding out about your father, and I'd like to help you handle that, but I can't, at least not here, not now. All I can do is ask you to come with me. You've been wonderful to me and I'm grateful, and I'll work with you, if you want, and help you get away from your father. We'll start another show—people know us, we have an audience—we'll put a program together, Tony! And I'll be with you."
"I can't do it! Damn it to hell, Elizabeth, don't you understand? I'm a famous person, not somebody just starting out! I don't go around begging
for a show, hiring a producer, worrying about sponsors . . . Why the hell do you think I'd get involved in all that?"
"You wouldn't. I was wrong to think you would. I'm sorry, Tony—"
"Lizzie, we want you on the show!" Boyle said, his voice riding over hers. "Don't try to be Joan of Arc; you'll regret it. You've got one hell of a brilliant future—"
"I won't see you again, Tony."
"You can't leave me!" Tony cried. "I need you! Elizabeth, my God, you can't leave me! You can't leave the show! Look what it's done for you! Look what I've done for you! Damn it, / made you! You were buried in the desert! Nobody knew you; nobody cared about you; even your husband wouldn't stay with you; I was the only one—"
The last of Elizabeth's control slipped. Enraged, she lashed at him. "How dare you! You don't know the first thing about me, or my husband —you have no right to say anything about us! You're having a tantrum, Tony—my God, why won't you grow up! You've been exaggerating and dramatizing for years—I kept thinking maybe you weren't, or it didn't make any difference, but it makes all the difference in the world because you can't live any other way, can you? Hiding yourself, playing your little games, scared to death of being honest because maybe no one would love you if you were just . . . you. And maybe no one would; I don't know and I don't care. I don't love you, Tony—I never did—I suppose because there isn't anyone to love: only a hollow little boy trying to be a man. How are you going to live with yourself after tonight? Your big chance to stand up to your father and his rotten little flunky—his spy —your chance to defend my integrity, and your own, and grow up; and you threw it away. You'd rather have your crib: nice and warm and secure, with no danger of falling. Failing. I hope you're happy in it, Tony; I even hope you find someone to share it. But it won't be me. It isn't big enough for me. And neither are you."
She opened the door and ran to the car parked in the circular drive. The tires screeched as she turned into the road and drove away. It was only when she was halfway down the canyon that she remembered it was Tony's car; she'd left him behind, with Boyle. A small laugh broke through the red anger still churning inside her.
Let them work it out; they make a fine pair.
♦♦
I
n the smoke-filled, windowless conference room of the Dallas Post, Matt opened that morning's paper, fighting off boredom as talk of advertising lineage droned on. The fourth conference of the day; the eighth day of what Chet cheerfully called wall-to-wall meetings in cities from San Diego to Dallas; he'd had more than enough. He turned to the second page to read "Private Affairs." Elizabeth's picture was at the top, as usual, but beneath it was an odd sentence, in italics. This interview was intended for television. For unknown reasons it was canceled, and so it appears here, almost exactly as in its original form when it was taped three weeks ago on February 6.
What the hell, Matt thought, but before he could begin to read he heard his name. "—need your opinion on that," the managing editor was saying.
Matt struggled to recall his name; by now everyone in every meeting looked and sounded the same, and so did the discussions. They were part of his job, and he didn't try to delegate them; even if he wanted to, there was no one to whom he could delegate the job of stroking corporate advertisers, keeping track of fluctuating readership, and dealing
with Keegan Rourke's unexpectedly frequent suggestions, criticisms, requests
for explanations, and changes in plans that Matt had to accept if he couldn't get them changed back. All of it was a long way from his idea of newspapering, and too much of the time it frustrated or bored the hell out of him.
He remembered the managing editor's name, dealt with the question he'd asked, then did what he'd ordered himself not to do: barely concealing his impatience, he took control of the meeting away from his editor, got everyone talking on the same subject, and led the discussion to the conclusion he'd wanted in the beginning. And then he told them he was calling it a day.
He refused several invitations to adjourn to a local bar, folded his copy of the Post to read on the plane to Houston, and strolled through the building. Six-thirty: the third- and fourth-floor offices were almost empty; only the executives who had been in the meeting were still there, closing up to go home. In the second floor bullpen, some reporters on the graveyard shift were coming in early, meeting those on the daytime shift who were leaving late. Matt stood in the doorway, watching the men and women sort through the clutter on their desks, talk on the telephone, pound the silent keys on their computers as if they were still working on typewriters.
Even at this time of night, the room had a vitality and sense of purpose that awoke memories; Matt could feel the urgency that had knotted his muscles years ago when he and Elizabeth and their small staff raced to get the Chieftain printed and onto the waiting delivery trucks. He turned away, then turned back and found his way to the pressroom.
The huge room was quiet now; in a few hours it would be rumbling and crackling with the sounds of thousands of sheets of paper rolling through ceiling-high presses, eight pages at a time being printed, folded and collated, stacked, tied, and sent on conveyer belts to the loading dock. Now, only one press was running as two pressmen freed a mass of paper chewed up within the gears and worked on a lever mechanism. Instinctively, Matt moved forward, then stopped, smiling ruefully at himself. Only at the Chieftain, he thought, remembering his elation at working with his hands the day Saul had mistaken him for the repairman. He and Saul had laughed together. The pressmen of the Dallas Post probably would not be amused to find the publisher of Rourke Enterprises muscling in on their territory.
I've lost all the fun of it. I've forgotten what it's like to roll up my sleeves and work in a newsroom. I'm not a newspaperman; I'm a goddam executive. I might as well be running a bank or a manufacturing company; I wouldn't be much farther from real newspaper work than I am now.
But what the hell could he do about it? He sat on the plane, leaning back and staring out the window at dull flashes of distant lightning in the immense black sky. He'd wanted power; he had it, and it was a full-time job. And when he wasn't frustrated or bored, he could get back the feeling that it was what he'd dreamed it would be. When he was alone behind the closed door of his hushed, comfortable office, writing his own memos that would set the future course of his newspapers on national and state issues, then he felt a surge of power that made him forget everything else. Or when he spoke at conferences where he was sought out for his support and he could choose which programs and candidates would be endorsed by his papers: then he was satisfied. Or when he heard from contacts in state legislatures, and in Washington, that legislation he had fought for had been passed, and he knew he'd helped shape the lives and fortunes of the people in half a dozen states, then once again, as in Aspen with Nicole, he knew this was what he wanted.
The steward brought his vodka. He lowered the tray table in front of him and ordered a second drink, knowing how long it always took to arrive; then he pulled out the morning paper and turned again to Elizabeth's column.
Construction crew chief Jock Olson has powerful shoulders, blue eyes under shaggy brows, a gravelly voice, and a broad grin that makes him look like a kid who's built his first tree house and feels on top of the world. "This is a damn nice valley we're talking about!" he says, looking into the distance, as if he could see that peaceful valley, and its small town of Nuevo, isolated in the mountains of New Mexico.
"And the people there care about it!" But he frowns as he says it. Because the people of Nuevo are being forced out by developers who will flood the valley for a lake and private resort. And the reason Jock Olson frowns is that he's come to love Nuevo.
"I've been all over the country, but I really like that place, especially the people. And somebody's gonna clean up there without those people getting one damn thing out of it. They've lived there all their lives—their parents and grandparents, too—so how come they can't share in it? Listen, I know that place: Nobody should be kicked out of there because there's room for everybody in that valley/"
"I'll be goddamned," Matt muttered.
Beside him, a man in a pin-stripe suit looked up from his yellow legal pad and saw Elizabeth's picture. "Good, isn't she? We get her in Phoenix. Which one is that?" He peered at it. "Oh, the construction guy. I read that a couple days ago. Damn shame, isn't it, what's happening to those people? My wife and I sent a check; so did my secretary."
Matt contemplated him. "Did you?"
"Why not? They need help, don't they? Least we can do; nobody's kicking us out of our home."
Matt nodded thoughtfully. "You're right. And, yes, she's very good." He turned back to the column and read Elizabeth's description of Olson's work as crew chief, his slow acceptance by the townspeople, his feeling of belonging in Nuevo, and his desire to build a house of his own there.
"I'd even work for nothing, after hours, to help them," he says, but he knows the town is doomed. "They're gonna drown it and the people don't have the money to buy land higher up, even if whoever owns it would sell. No money to build new houses, either, or move some of the old ones, and the old church, to save them, you know, because they should be saved, they're terrific: like something out of a story book."
He lets loose with a few four-letter words, and some a little longer, and then goes back to work. This winter it's an office building in Albuquerque, but next summer Jock Olson will be crew chief again in Nuevo: forced, because it's his job, to build a dam that will drown the place he loves, and take a town and a valley away from people he loves, whose only crime is that they happen to live in the path of a posh resort.
At first Matt was stunned by the boldness of it; then a surge of pride swept through him. The column was wonderfully done, bringing Olson and Nuevo to life while throwing down the gauntlet to the developers by offering a solution—all of it without preaching or sounding shrill. He had never felt so proud of her.
He wondered if the idea of moving the town was Olson's, or if she'd put it in his head. It didn't much matter. Olson was right: the idea was terrific. And Matt strongly suspected that Elizabeth had some ideas on how it might be worked. And Isabel, he thought, and others in Nuevo, and probably Saul and Heather, too.
The same nostalgia that had swept him in the pressroom of the Post
tugged at him again, this time for that group of friends in Santa Fe and Nuevo working together to keep the town alive. He wished for a moment he could join them; they were helping people in just the way he'd hoped to do with his newspapers. And they'd found a better solution than the only one he'd known of: the offer of financial aid for resettlement—
He frowned. Where the hell was that report? He'd promised it to Elizabeth at Saul and Heather's wedding, in December; she'd called a couple of times since then, asking about it; he'd said they hadn't found it yet, and then told Chet, again, he wanted it. He'd have to get after Chet, he thought; no reason for a simple request to take this long.
The plane began its descent into Houston. On impulse, Matt opened his briefcase, pulled out a sheet of stationery, and wrote a short note to Elizabeth. He'd mail it at the airport, on his way to the lower level, where Nicole would be waiting to take him home.
Elizabeth read the note two days later, on a plane to New York. In her rush to get out of the house to drive to the air
port in Albuquerque, she'd stuffed the mail in her briefcase, opening it only when she had settled back and lowered her tray table as the stewardess brought her sherry. The handwriting gave her a shock as it always did, even though Matt regularly sent a check with a brief note. / ought to be used to it after eight months. But the check had come last week; this was something else. She tore it open. "Dear Elizabeth," he had written in his bold scrawl with strong, slanted lines. "You've made Olson a hero and Nuevo everybody's idea of home. It's a wonderful, moving piece and proves (though no one could have doubted it) that you're the best there is. With love, Matt."
She read the note over and over, her anger growing with each rereading until she was trembling. The best there is. But evidently not better than Nicole. Not better than Keegan Rourke. Not better than that fawning crowd in Houston. Not better than glamour and wealth and a very fast track.
She crumpled the note, letting it fall to the floor, and accepted a second sherry from the stewardess, though she never had more than one. But it's been quite a month, she thought. First the blow-up with Bo and Tony, then, as word spread through the industry that she had left "Anthony," without warning and with sixteen weeks still left in the season, she began receiving invitations to radio and television talk shows—and she began to travel.
Now it was more than a speech in New York or Philadelphia or Tulsa, and perhaps a night away from home; now the appearances were stacked up by Elizabeth's agent and she was away two or three nights in a row. In
between, she fit in interviews and wrote her column on planes or on the days she was in Santa Fe. She never prepared for her appearances; she answered questions spontaneously about her taped interviews and those for Markham Features, in Europe and America, using anecdotes and charm and the on-camera skills she had learned in Los Angeles.
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